So Monday was another fucking Monday with the crushing realisation that every day this week will be another Monday. When I finally got home after an abortive trip to the library (I'd forgotten my card, their system was down so they couldn't find me details) I wanted something very simple to put in my face, to fill the void where my screams echo through my stupid body. Shut up, insides! I am going to numb you with STUFF! Go away!
Normally on a day like this I would make the most garlic bread you have ever SEEN and keep eating til breathing is virtually impossible. Unfortunately I had no bread (or even flour) or margarine. So I actually had to make something.
A while ago I was feeling a bit optimistic and ordered all this organic veg from a local scheme. It's mostly sitting in one of those flimsy sort-of-wooden crates on the kitchen table mocking me. "Hey, Ray you fuck-knuckle!" It taunts "thought could keep yr shit together long enough to make something nutritious and delicious with this shit, didja." I want to leave the room, but I know the burning embarrassment I will feel when I have to surreptitiously re-enter the kitchen later, that I won't be able to make it to the cupboard to sneak out a tin of something, anything (I think there are some jelly beans in there) to eat without that fucking flimsy sort-of-wooden crate noticing and calling me out once more. "Oh, it's you again, dicktard! Back with your tail between you legs, are you? You BADGER TWAT!" as I feel the tiny little fires under my skin and the lump in my throat I get when I am so mortally flustered.
I had no choice. I called that motherfucking flimsy sort-of-wooden crate out on its shit! FUCK YOU, flimsy sort-of-wooden crate! I am calling you on your shit! I will fuck up your contents REAL FUCKING BAD.
So on Monday 3rd December 2012, when it was maybe just above freezing point in Birmingham, in my cold flat with woefully inefficient heating, I decided to make a salad.
I chopped up some kale, (not curly kale, other kale, it;s nice) and sliced up half an avocado, sliced up a tomato, considered onion but just could quite push myself that far, then I tossed it with some ancient dressing I found in the fridge.
But even I thought to myself that salad on a fucking freezing Monday is no good at all. That is in no way a substitute for half a ton of garlic bread. SO I pocked about in the freezer and found some sad looking very-much-leftover Asda's own oven chips. Straight in the oven with those bastards. I also found some posh fake chicken that I had completely forgotten I'd bought on pay day.
In absolute desperation I searched for absolutely anything to go with it. I found something. Sort of. I threw some soya milk in a pan, added salt & pepper, then threw in a large handful of yeast flakes. Yeast flakes make everything better. I tried to cook it down in to a sauce, but I didn't have (or at least didn't have the inclination to search for and hence discover that I didn't have) anything to thicken it up with, just a little cornflour would have saved me at that point. If I had some mustard to put in there too, I reckon I'd have had a pretty decent oh-my-god-I-just-need-food-fuck-off-world sauce. But I didn't, so I didn't.
I threw the fake chicken in the pan, wit til it was cooked through and spooned a runny-as-fuck savoury chicken something sauce on to my plate, with the I-DARE-YOU salad and some sad Asda oven chips. I ate it, it was never going to win any prizes, but I didn't vom one bit.
Here's what it looked like:
Now either bring me all the garlic bread or leave me alone.
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